


Sightless

by Kiwikiwi591



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blindness, Eventual Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiwikiwi591/pseuds/Kiwikiwi591
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had never anticipated nor planned for losing one of his senses, and it hits hard when he does. Luckily, John will be there to help, whether he's wanted or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hospital

            “Give me a call when he’s home,” Lestrade said. John nodded as the door closed, ending the steady stream of visitors they’d had throughout the day.

            John sat uneasily, the steady rhythm of the heart monitor sounding from his right. The sound was probably the only thing keeping him sane at the moment; a reminder that the man in the bed was, in fact, still alive after their incident. His hand clenched at the memory, binding the fabric of the upholstery.

            Sherlock Holmes; for a man that was so brilliant, there were times that he could be the most _dense_ human being on the planet _._ He had to have known what could happen; his deductive abilities couldn’t have passed it over.

            _“John, duck!”_

            That was the last thing he’d said. In what could have very probably been his last moments, Sherlock had only thought to protect John. And it had probably saved his life; had he not ducked when Sherlock told him to, he probably would have gotten hit by several pieces of shrapnel.

            Sherlock was probably very lucky to have survived himself; when the bomb went off, he was hit with glass, metal, stone… John’s blood still ran cold at the memory of seeing the slowly pooling blood beneath the limp body of his friend.

            John punched the armrest. Why did he have to be the one to get hurt? The time that Sherlock could have been spent shielding himself was spent ensuring John’s safety instead. While he was incredibly thankful that he’d been saved, it still made him feel partly responsible for the man’s current condition.

            John looked up at the wall, watching the clock tick. It’d been nearly three hours since he’d been wheeled into the hospital room, bandaged and bruised. He’d watched, almost detached, as they hooked him up to a breathing tube and went to work. The procedure hadn’t been long; Sherlock was still unconscious, and only the deepest cuts needed attention. John still shivered at the memory of the metal tray holding the bloody pieces of shrapnel.

            John’s head snapped up as Sherlock shifted. He stretched, wincing in pain. John glanced towards the IV drip, pressed the dosage button on the painkillers. Sherlock relaxed, sighing as he fell back into the pillows. After a couple moments, he swallowed hard, and opened his eyes. He stared towards the ceiling, breath seeming to catch for a moment. His eyes darted around slightly, and then he turned his head towards John. John’s heart began to beat hard.

            Sherlock’s eyes had an almost glazed look, not focusing on anything in particular. It looked all too similar to the look they’d had when he was rolled over at the warehouse, pieces of glass stuck to his skin.

            “John?” he said quietly.

            “I’m right here,” he replied.

            Sherlock swallowed heavily. “John,” he said. “How bad are my injuries?”

            “You’ll be alright. They weren’t that bad-“

            “No, John, specifically. What happened to me?”

            John sighed, forcing himself into a medical standpoint. “Well, you were fairly close to the blast. In all honesty, the wall separating you from the bomb was probably the only thing keeping you from being killed. The explosion knocked you back, probably giving you a concussion when you hit the ground. You were hit with quite a bit of shrapnel, but none of it dug too deep. I think you have some stitching on your chest and on your sides, but overall, you should just be left with some scarring.”

            “Did any of the shrapnel hit my eyes?” he asked. John went cold; he knew what Sherlock was leading to.

            “I’m not sure,” he said.

            “I think you need to get the doctor,” he said quietly. “I can’t see.”

* * *

 

            John listened numbly as the doctor explained the situation and Sherlock’s options. It seemed surreal; nothing like this could have ever happened to him.

            “..Do you understand, Mr. Holmes?” he finished.

            “Yes,” he said flatly. “As of right now, I have some fine shrapnel inside of my eyes. It’s already caused damage. Best case scenario, it can be removed, and I will have blurry vision that could be possibly corrected with glasses or contact lenses. Worst case scenario, which is the most likely one, the damage is permanent and I will be blind for the rest of my life.”

            The doctor nodded. “Alright. We need some time to go over some of the test results. I’ll call you when we have definitive answers. For now, you can go home once the bandages are changed. As far as I know, you’ll be in good enough care with Doctor Watson.” The doctor gave John a smile before walking out of the room. John gave a long sigh before turning back to Sherlock.

            “Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

            “Yes,” he replied. His voice was still free of any emotion; carefully blank. This worried John. The only time Sherlock ever purposely covered any feeling he had was when he was at his most vulnerable; obviously the news had hit harder than he was willing to let on.

            The nurse came in not long later, replacing Sherlock’s bandages. John cringed at the sight of all the lacerations; the damage was worse than he’d first thought.

            “Let’s get you home,” John said. Sherlock stood, and John automatically stood to help him across the room. He stumbled a bit, placing a hand on the bed. John stepped closer, but Sherlock recoiled at his touch.

            “I can do this myself,” he snapped. For just a moment, John could see just how upset Sherlock really was; a couple seconds later, however, his face went back to the careful blankness it had held before. John sighed, deciding to walk behind carefully. Sherlock tried to get a feel for the room, obviously getting more frustrated by the second.

            “Turn to your left, then walk about eight paces. You’ll be in front of the door,” he whispered. Sherlock nodded, taking carefully measured steps. He fumbled for a moment, but quickly found the door handle.

            John grabbed the walking cane leaning on the wall before stepping out behind him.


	2. Back Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John drummed his fingers on the seat of the cab, looking over at Sherlock. He hadn’t moved since they’d stepped inside, just staring straight forward; it seriously worried him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry this chapter is a bit short, but the next one will be a more usual length. Initially, they were going to be one chapter, but I thought it worked better this way.

            John drummed his fingers on the seat of the cab, looking over at Sherlock. He hadn’t moved since they’d stepped inside, just staring straight forward; it seriously worried him. He’d seen Sherlock nervous, twitching his fingers as he looked around. He’d seen him on danger nights or during a long stretch without a case or cigarettes, pacing around the flat and being generally irritable. He’d even seen him scared, that night in the inn when they’d been trying to find the Hound, hand shaking as he held his drink. But John had never, _ever,_ seen Sherlock Holmes quite the way he looked now.

            His face was still carefully blank, not as much as a twitch of an eyebrow showing; his eyes, however... It was like they were compensating for lack of sight by broadcasting Sherlock’s inner thoughts to the world. John had caught a quick glimpse of them as they stepped into the cab, Sherlock initially leaning a little too far in; he’d been careful to not look directly at them again afterwards. Those icy eyes, normally so filled with calculating precision, only showed a sadness and anxiety and _vulnerability_ that John had never seen in him, not once. It ached to see him that way.

            The cab arrived at their flat, and Sherlock continued to stare blankly. John dug out his wallet, paid the cabbie.

            “We’re here,” John said.

            “I know,” Sherlock snapped, turning towards him. After a moment, his expression changed to a much softer one. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

            “It’s okay,” he replied. He tried not to hang on to Sherlock’s apology; he _never_ apologised. He only did that when he felt like he well and truly messed something up. John got out of the cab, stepping to Sherlock’s door. Sherlock stepped out, his balance and sense of depth surprisingly good for a moment. John stepped just a tad bit closer, giving him instructions on where to walk as he had in the hospital. They finally stepped inside, and John looked up at the stairs.

            Those would be difficult.

            “How many?” Sherlock asked.

            “Sorry?” John said. “Oh, stairs. Ah...” He quickly counted.

            “19. It looks like 19 steps.”

            Sherlock nodded, then took a very careful step onto the stairs. He kept walking this way, carefully measuring. John could see him unconsciously mouthing numbers, counting the steps. John walked behind him, sure to keep a couple steps back in case he fell.

            They reached the top of the steps, Sherlock looking a bit more sure of himself. Looking into the flat, John noticed that it was tidier than usual; probably Mrs. Hudson trying to do a favour for Sherlock. He felt a twinge of sadness, realising that she still didn’t know that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to see it.

            “Five paces forward, then turn to your left. You’ll be right in front of the couch, so you should be able to just sit down,” John said. Sherlock nodded, then followed his directions. He seemed to be trying to walk normally and was doing well; the only indication that something was amiss was a light tremble in his hand. He sat down stiffly, staring blankly forward again. John stepped inside, leaned the walking cane on the wall. He stopped, silence taking over for a couple long moments.

            “You alright?” he asked quietly. He knew for a fact that Sherlock was definitely _not_ alright, but it was all he could think to say. It was a pointless gesture nonetheless, since Sherlock didn’t reply. He continued to stare forwards, not even blinking for long periods of time.

            “Do you want anything? Tea, maybe?”

            Still no response. John sighed, walked into the kitchen. He turned on the kettle, deciding to make some tea regardless of if Sherlock would take any. He needed something to busy himself, anyway.

            He slipped into the familiar motions, allowing his mind to go blank for a while.


	3. Housekeeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“John, duck!”  
>  The words come forth of their own will, a warning for what I know I myself cannot escape._

_“John, duck!”_

_The words come forth of their own will, a warning for what I know I myself cannot escape._

_The bomb explodes, a bright light blocking out everything surrounding it._

_The combustion and resulting shockwave tremor through the earth, propelling both myself and several dozen pieces of shrapnel backwards. The pieces pierce the cloth and skin, sending little waves of pain reverberating throughout my being. The concussive wave is the worst of the impact, both propelling my head against the pavement and causing my hearing to go dull._

_Rubble settles and quick, sure footsteps approach before darkness takes hold._

* * *

_Scratchy sheets. The hum of fluorescent bulbs overhead. A steady stream of beeps to the left, a millisecond or two out of phase with the heartbeat it catalogues. Hear a shifting of fabric nearby, steady breaths; John._

_Open eyes languidly._

_Darkness._

_Blink once. Twice._

_Still nothing. Cool panic begins to seep in, but is quickly shoved away._

_Eyes dart around, searching. Still nothing._

_I turn towards John, hear him stiffen._

_“John?”_

* * *

_Listen to the options with an odd sense of numbness. Emotions are usually not part of the equation, but this is different; it’s purposeful then. In this case, it’s almost as if the very ability to feel has disappeared._

_As I process the information from the doctor, it seems that that may be an advantage.  
_

* * *

            A soft clank of porcelain against wood comes from the right, snapping the present world into focus; John has made tea. I bite back a remark; he is only trying to help in his usual bedside manner, even if it is utterly useless. I pick up the mug, take a sip in order to appease him. He gives a small, soft sigh; relief. He’s worried, then. No need; the last couple hours have proven extraordinarily useful.

            The Mind Palace is an even greater asset than it was before; I still have sight there. It’s fuzzy, almost as if a fog has descended, but it’s better than the bitter darkness that awaits in the real world. The time since being discharged from the hospital are spent collecting, cataloguing, organizing, and planning; the only time I have to retreat from its halls are when instruction is required from John.

            John.

            Ever patient, always willing to help. It’s typical of his doctor instincts, but there’s something more behind it, something that causes an odd softness in his voice and a light tingle inside; specifics are filed away for future analysis. For right now, his instructions on navigation are plenty sufficient; it also holds promise for future options.

            Pacing through the corridor, I find the darkness collecting again, and feel myself go cold. Anxiety, apprehension, panic-

            No. Must not allow emotion to take hold. Shove the darkness into a corner; lock it behind an old door. Make a note to confront the shadows later, once everything else is sorted.

            I reluctantly shift back to full consciousness, trading the shadow in the corners of the Palace for the overcast darkness of reality. I start to take another sip of tea; as usual, John has done nicely, and it seems a shame to waste it even if it wasn’t asked for.

            “Oh, watch out-“ he says softly, but it comes too late. Miscalculate distance, spill remainder of the mug on my shirt. Feel the lukewarm liquid seep into the fabric; anger suddenly starts to bloom. I can feel it bubbling up, working its way to the surface, and before it can be shoved behind the door, the mug is shattered on the floor, and I stand in front of the couch, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

            I close my eyes, for all the difference it makes. I have to control it, rein it in; shove it away with the rest of the shadows collecting in my mind. If the Palace is overrun with this newfound _sentiment,_ all future efforts will be for nothing. I feel the tension from John, obviously shocked from my actions. I sit back down, taking one more breath to try and steady myself. Anxiety threatens again at the loss of control, but it too is swept away for the moment.

            “Sorry,” I mumble. I can practically feel John’s concerned stare.

            “S’okay,” he replies quietly after a moment, and what I wouldn’t _give_ to see his expression. While it’s true that John’s emotions are usually written as plainly in his voice as on his face, most others wouldn’t be that way. I need to begin to shift my thinking, replace sight with my other senses.

            The thought suddenly latches into my head before I can stop it.

            I can’t see John’s face. I would probably never see it again.

            The old door cracks, emotions seeping through. This is unacceptable, but the thought keeps returning, repeating in my head like an endless stream of taunts.

            _I cannot see John, and will likely never see him again._

            I can almost feel my control slipping, anxiety and sadness and a damnable vulnerability struggling to take hold, and _it must be stopped._

            Think, think, think, stop the shadows, make them creep away-

            “Get out,” I spit. The words are filled with venom, and a momentary pang of guilt seeps through.

            “What?” he asks, voice still soft with concern; it just makes the turbulence inside worse.

            “ _Get. Out.”_

            He’s silent a couple moments, obviously contemplating. He lets out a long sigh; from experience, it’s one of both acceptance and anger. It’s a sigh I’ve heard often, but it’s normally accompanied with that odd little crinkle of his brow-

            _Stop._

            I hear him stand. “Yeah, fine. I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Don’t do any experiments or anything while I’m gone, I’d rather not find you sprawled out in broken glass for the second time in a week.”

            Guilt bubbles up again, but other emotions are fighting for control and shove it out of the way. I simply nod, unable to think of a sufficient reply.

            He walks away with heavy, angry steps, doesn’t shut the door behind him.

            I slip into the Palace again. It’s much darker now, and after a while it becomes painfully obvious that permanent damage has already been done. Broken shards are swept away, and eventually I gain control again. Near control, I suppose. A cruel undertone of misplaced sadness still runs through, creating a cold, uncomfortable feeling. Once everything is repaired as best as it can be, I resign myself back to the real world with a sigh. I lie down, an uncharacteristic sleepiness taking hold; likely part of the recovery process. One thought still grips, persistent until unconsciousness takes its place.

            If I can’t gain control of this damned _sentiment,_ it’s all meaningless. There will be no point to even attempt to continue on.


	4. Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He wondered if Sherlock realised that he may not be able to go back to work, yet. He hoped so; if Sherlock was this upset now, the realisation that detective work may not be possible might really drive him mad. John wasn’t sure if he could make it through that._

            John sighed as he walked into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He’d purposely left the door to the rest of the flat open; hopefully he’d hear it if Sherlock decided to try and do an experiment just to spite him. It didn’t seem beyond him at this point.

            John flopped down on his bed, pinched the bridge of his nose. In all truthfulness, he had no idea what Sherlock would do. This wasn’t the type of behaviour he’d come to expect from the man; although to be fair, they’d never been in a situation quite like this one. Both of them had had injuries on cases before, yes, but nothing permanent. Whether Sherlock ever regained sight or not, this was serious; things would be permanently changed. Maybe that was what really got to him. Sherlock never _had_ been too fond of major change in their lives.

            “John, are you alright, dear?”

            John sat back up, seeing Mrs. Hudson in the doorway. How long had she been there?

            “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

          She stepped inside a bit, crossed her arms. “I _was_ coming to talk to Sherlock, but he’s out cold on the couch.”

            _That_ couldn’t be good. Sherlock hardly slept, even between cases, and now he was napping on the sofa? John huffed again, put his head in his hands.

            “How is he, anyway? Anything too serious?”

            John’s head snapped up.

            _Oh, God, she doesn’t know yet._

            “John,” she said softly. “Is something wrong?”

            John hesitated, trying to find a way to break the news gently. He finally settled on just saying it straight; no need for sugar coating.

            “Yes, Mrs. Hudson, there is something wrong. Sherlock didn’t walk away from that without some serious injury.”

            Her face fell, and she put one hand on her chest. Tears just barely started to shine in her eyes. “It’s not fatal, is it?” she asked quietly.

            “No, nothing like that,” he replied. He paused again, and Mrs. Hudson came over to sit beside him on the bed. He sighed before speaking.

            “Sherlock was right in front of the blast when the bomb went off. The only thing separating the two was a wall. He was hit with quite a bit of rubble and shrapnel from the explosion.” He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Stupid git told me to duck instead of getting out of the way himself. Probably saved my life.”

            “Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson whispered, sniffling once.

            “Nothing major was harmed from it. He’s got some deep cuts, lots of bruising. Probably a concussion. But,” he said, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Some fine bits of glass and dust got into his eyes. He’s blind.”

            Mrs. Hudson gasped. “Is it permanent?” she asked after a couple silent moments.

            “We’re- He’s waiting on the doctor to call back with his final decision.” He stopped a moment, mulling it over. “In my opinion though, having seen the event itself and the procedures he went through... Yeah, it’s permanent. I hope I’m wrong, I really, sincerely do, but it doesn’t look good.” He shook his head. “Bloody idiot. If he’d just ducked-“ he stopped, unable to finish the thought. He was so angry with himself, he knew it was misplaced, but he couldn’t help feeling responsible for Sherlock’s injury. If he’d just stayed behind, or was already ducked, or _something,_ then maybe Sherlock would have had the time to keep himself safe. He would’ve been injured regardless, of course, but perhaps he would still have his sight if it wasn’t for him. He balled his hands into fists.

                He was surprised at the touch of a hand, and looked up to see Mrs. Hudson rubbing his shoulder.

                “John,” she said with a sad smile. “No matter what happens, you can’t blame yourself. Sherlock always has a reason for what he does, and he decided to keep you safe. The best thing you can do is help him through this.”

                John just stared back at her a moment, taken aback by the kind words. She was right, he realised. He could do all the wishing in the world that it would’ve gone differently, that Sherlock would have watched out for himself, but he didn’t. The best thing to do was to be there and make sure he was safe now.

                He nodded, smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. You’re right.” She gave him a gentle squeeze, then stood.

                “I’ve got some cleaning to get back to. Come get me if either of you need anything, dear,” she said. She paused a moment, then walked out.

                John sighed, trying to decide if he should go back downstairs. Sherlock probably needed both the space and the sleep, so it was probably best to leave him alone for the time being. He was worried that he might get into something once he got up, though. He’d likely try to walk about the flat just out of habit and fall out of the window, or something. He finally decided on a plan, and walked down the stairs.

                “Keep an ear out for Sherlock, if you wouldn’t mind,” he yelled to Mrs. Hudson, and walked out the front door.

* * *

 

                “My God,” Lestrade said, leaning back in his chair. “Blind. I can’t believe it.”

                “Neither can I,” John said, sighing. “It just doesn’t seem right.”

                Lestrade sat in stunned silence a moment, thinking it over.

                “How-? I mean will he ever-?”

                “Go back to solving cases? I don’t know. I honestly don’t know,” John said. He’d thought of that since they’d first left the hospital; he wondered if Sherlock realised that he may not be able to go back to work, yet. He hoped so; if Sherlock was this upset now, the realisation that detective work may not be possible might really drive him mad. John wasn’t sure if he could make it through that.

                Lestrade sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “God help him,” he said. “Without cases... I can’t imagine it.”

                John nodded. After a couple moments, he leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk and setting his chin on his hands.

                “Listen, Greg,” he said. “The reason I’m here... You’ve known Sherlock longer than I have. Quite a bit longer, I think.”

                “About five years,” he replied. “Why?”

                “It’s just... He’s acting odd. I mean, of course he’s going to be upset, but I’ve _never_ seen him like this. It’s like... It’s almost like he’s not here anymore. He’s just so mechanical and blank-faced, but _god,_ you should’ve seen the look in his eyes. I’m a doctor, and I’ve had to give news of all sorts of horrible illnesses before, including terminal ones, and I’ve seen all sorts of reactions. He’s acting like he’s _dying,_ Greg. It’s like his whole world is gone.” John shook his head, angry again. “I’m just wondering... Have you ever seen him like that? You knew him when he was still using, right?”

                Lestrade gave a long sigh, leaning back again. He shook his head after a couple moments. “Yeah, I did. And John, he was an awful sight. Did I ever tell you about the first time I found him?” John shook his head, and Lestrade leaned back forward, looking him straight in the face. “He was just wondering about in the street, high on god knows what. I took him to the station, just like the other junkies, and was going to call the rehab centre. But then he looked up at me, and I still remember the look in his eyes. You could tell, he was so _angry_ with himself. But he blinked a couple times, and then spilled out a lead on our biggest case. I still remember that, kept a homicide from becoming a triple one.”

“At first we thought he was involved, somehow, but then he somehow found his way over to some of our case files. He talked on about those, gave out dead-on information about who we were and what we had for lunch five days ago, you know how he is. And from that moment, I knew that he could be so much better than that, so much more than just a junkie in the streets trying to find his next fix. I made a deal with him; he could come back, solve cases, as long as he quit the drugs. He was off of them within a week, once the withdrawal started to ease out.”

Lestrade sighed again, looked John in the eyes. “What you said, John, that’s how he acted the first time I saw him. If you’re serious, and that’s how he is again, you need to stay with him. Because I don’t know what he’ll do, and you can’t let him be who he used to be. He can’t go back to that.”

                John sat back, taking in all that he’d said. His mouth was slightly agape; sure, he’d known some of Sherlock’s past, but _Christ,_ he hadn’t known just how bad it’d been. After a couple moments, he nodded, thanked Lestrade, and walked out.

                He arrived back at Baker Street about 20 minutes later, and then stopped in the doorway to their flat.

                Sherlock was sitting straight up, his phone clasped tightly in his hand.

                “The doctor called,” he said, still staring forwards. “There’s nothing to be done. The damage is permanent.”


	5. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _True, he’d thought the damage was permanent, but to actually hear it confirmed was something entirely different. It meant quite a bit of change, a lot of which he knew was going to be just about impossible for Sherlock to deal with._

            John stood in the doorway, unable to think of anything to say. True, he’d thought the damage was permanent, but to actually hear it confirmed was something entirely different. It meant quite a bit of change, a lot of which he knew was going to be just about impossible for Sherlock to deal with.

            “Oh, God,” John said, stepping inside. He sat down beside him. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”

            Sherlock turned to him in confusion. “Why are you apologising? It’s not your fault.”

            A pang of guilt went through John. Despite everything, he couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility for it all. Nonetheless, he gave a small, sad smile. “It’s all I could think to say. And what I really meant was that I’m sorry you have to go through this. I know how hard it is for you-“

            “Nonsense!” Sherlock said, springing up from the couch. “I’m perfectly fine! This is just another challenge to solve, and solve it I will.” He turned his head towards John, flashing a wide smile. John went cold at the sight.

            Something was wrong. _Very_ wrong.

            “Sherlock,” he said. He didn’t know what he meant to say afterwards. In all honesty, he was too shocked to really think of anything.

            “Now, John, I need your help with something,” he said.

            “Alright...?”

            Sherlock stopped a moment, obviously working something out in his head. He then pointed with surprising accuracy towards the kitchen.

            “Mrs. Hudson came through and cleaned while I was still in the hospital. That’s the kitchen, yes?’

            John nodded before catching himself, then said “Yes.”

            Sherlock nodded. “And there’s nothing on the floor, yes?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good. I’m going to try and walk to the kitchen now.”

            John stood, but Sherlock put up a hand.

            “No need to follow behind me, John,” he said. “And don’t even think about grabbing that cane. I won’t need it.”

            John was still incredulous, but eventually sat back down with a sigh. Sherlock needed to do this, he decided. Although his complete about-face in his demeanour was more than a little disconcerting, Sherlock was obviously trying to adapt. The state of his mind could be addressed later.

            Sherlock stopped, thinking again. After a couple moments, he took a tentative step forwards. He nodded, taking another step. It was slow going, but John watched in quiet amazement as Sherlock successfully walked to the kitchen, only stumbling slightly once. He walked back to the couch again, still wobbly but a bit more sure of himself. He repeated this a couple times until he’d successfully navigated the sitting room at a normal walking pace. From an outsider’s view, it looked as if nothing was wrong at all.

            “Sherlock,” John said quietly in awe. “How did you-?”

            Sherlock turned back towards him, put two fingers on either side of his head. “Mental map, John. I’ve paced this flat enough times to know where all the furniture and walls are.” He laughed once to himself. “I was actually about to delete that map about two days before the bomber case. It seemed useless at the time.”

            John shook his head. Of _course_ Sherlock would have a plan. Of course he would have a mental map and spring right back into his old self. Why would he react like anyone else? Although...

            “You sure you’re alright?” he asked. Sherlock looked at him in confusion.

            “Yes, didn’t I say that already? I’m perfectly fine, John.”

            “Well it’s just- I mean, when we came home from the hospital-“

            Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “I just needed time to sort things out. I knew I had the map in here somewhere, it was just a matter of cleaning it out.” He had a momentary grimace of pain, but he quickly dismissed it with another frankly terrifying smile.

            John frowned. Something was terribly wrong, and he knew it, but Sherlock wasn’t going to give it up easily. And nonetheless, he _did_ navigate the flat with no problem. He sighed, deciding on a plan.

            “Good,” he said cheerfully. For once, he was glad that Sherlock couldn’t see his expression; he never did have a good poker face. “So, what’s the plan?”

            Sherlock walked over to his chair, feeling tentatively with his hand to make sure of its position. He sat down with a puff of air, steepling his hands in his typical thinking pose.

            “Navigating the flat will be no problem. I’ve mapped each room successfully, and I have no doubt that walking through each one will be as easy as the sitting room. Therefore my next course of action will be to immediately start my research.”

            “Research?”

            “Yes, John, research!” he clapped his hands together. “I need to reacquaint myself with the world, learn to recognize everything again. I only lost one of my senses, John, I’ve still got four others to work with.”

            John shook his head. The conflict between Sherlock’s outside actions and his inner thoughts was painfully obvious, but there was no point in trying to deter him from his plans. Once he was set on an idea, he went after it.

            “Right, well,” John said. “Is there any way I can help?”

            Sherlock flashed him a small smile, genuine this time.

            “As a matter of fact, yes. I need you to collect samples of everything.”

            John raised an eyebrow. “Everything...?”

            “Yes, everything. If you can think of it, I need a sample of it. Paper, ash, chalk, grass, soil, perfumes, metal, anything you think that we may come across on cases.”

            John stopped a moment, realising what Sherlock was getting at. He hadn’t even considered the possibility of not going on cases anymore; he just figured he’d recover and get back to work, just like any other time one of them got hurt. It was truly heartbreaking.

“Sherlock-“

“Go now, John, no time to waste.”

John paused, unsure of himself. On one hand, he was almost sure this would only end badly, and he wasn’t entirely sure that Sherlock could take any more stress like that. He was obviously still hurting in his head, but trying desperately to fix it. On the other hand, however, it is Sherlock Holmes; maybe it would work. Things that would never work for the average person work out beautifully for the detective. He finally sighed, and set out to grab what he could.

* * *

 

            The next week was filled with more trips out to the store than John could remember taking in the past year. Every time he came back home with something that Sherlock wanted, he had a new list for John to go and buy. John was a bit concerned about the bill, which had to be piling up at this point; Sherlock had simply handed him a card, and said that it should be sufficient for whatever he needed. John had no doubt that Mycroft was somehow involved.

            After nine straight days of running and making sure Sherlock was fed and sleeping at least four hours a night, he stepped into the flat to see Sherlock grinning widely and putting on his coat.

            “Come now, John,” he said. “We’ve got a case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you for all the comments so far, I'm glad you guys are enjoying the story!  
> As far as updates go, you can safely expect a new chapter at least every other day from this point on.  
> Thanks for reading! ^^


	6. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“A case, John, a case!” he replied, fingers searching for the buttons of his coat. “I’ve collected as much data as I can in the flat. The only thing left to do is get practical experience. I’ll need your help with navigation, of course.”_

            John froze, staring back at him incredulously.

            “A what?” he asked.

            “A case, John, a case!” he replied, fingers searching for the buttons of his coat. “I’ve collected as much data as I can in the flat. The only thing left to do is get practical experience. I’ll need your help with navigation, of course.”

            John was at a loss for words. What seemed like hundreds of thoughts flew through his head at once, but he finally settled on one question.

            “How did you get a case?” he asked. “I was just talking to Lestrade, they don’t have anything right now-“

            “Thanks to the text-to-speech program that you ever so kindly installed on my laptop, I was able to pick a case from my inbox,” he said. John kicked himself mentally; he’d installed the software so that he could get a break from finding sound samples online, not so that Sherlock could go and get a case, and _Christ, Sherlock can’t see and he’s going out on a case._

            John steeled himself. “Sherlock,” he said gently. “This might not be the best idea.”

            Sherlock smiled a bit. “It’ll be fine, John,” he said. “As I said, you’ll be there to help me navigate. I’m sure you can help should anything go horribly wrong as well.”

            John let out a long sigh. On one hand, he _could_ stop Sherlock. He was sure that this would only end badly, and Sherlock could only go and do it if he followed along to help him around. He knew for a fact that Sherlock hadn’t touched the walking stick, and probably never would. On the other hand... Maybe he was wrong. Sherlock usually knew something he didn’t, so maybe there was good reason for this. It still didn’t feel quite right, but John forced a smile nonetheless, even if Sherlock couldn’t see it.

            “Alright, fine,” he said. “But if it looks like anything is going wrong, you’re not staying.”

            Sherlock’s face brightened, and he walked towards the doorway. He turned his head towards John, waiting for him to follow along.

            He sighed one more time, and stepped out into the hallway. Might as well get this over with.

* * *

 

            As soon as Sherlock stepped outside, John regretted his decision. He froze in the middle of the sidewalk. John looked over at him, watching carefully; the only movement was the ever so slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. After a few minutes, John began to get uncomfortable.

            “Sherlock?” he asked quietly. “Are you alright?”

            Sherlock took a deep breath, seeming unsure of himself for a moment. “It’s... There’s more input than I was expecting,” he finally replied. “When I was studying samples, it was isolated, only one piece of a whole. Stupid. I should have accounted for this, should have tried multiple at once-“ he shook his head, as if he could dislodge the thought.

He finally sighed, smiling again. “No matter; adds to the challenge. Coming, John?”

            John stood, looking at him. There was still something deeply unsettling about the way Sherlock had been acting. He couldn’t quite pin it down, but it was almost as if Sherlock was _too_ happy. He’d recovered so quickly, none of the terrible sadness in his eyes from before to be found. John steeled himself, though; if Sherlock was truly happy, did it really matter how quickly he’d recovered? He shoved away the nagging feeling again, then began to walk, Sherlock walking closely beside him.

* * *

 

            John looked up at the door to the little flat, confused for a moment. It seemed so... Ordinary. Nothing seemed to be especially wrong with the place; no sign of burglary, and John could see someone shifting in front of the window. Usually Sherlock’s first stop was the scene of the crime.

            “You’re sure this is the right address?” he asked.

            “187 North Gower Street,” Sherlock said.

            “Alright,” John replied, nodding. “A step to your right, then a flight of... 11 stairs.”

            Sherlock nodded slightly, then followed the directions, John following behind. John stepped in front, knocking on the door.

            “Coming!” came the voice from inside. Definitely not a burglar, then.

            The door opened, a man stepping into view.

            “Mr. Holmes?” he asked, reaching out a hand.

            “Just behind me,” John replied. “John Watson.”

            The man nodded, smiling. “Mark. Come on in.”

            They both stepped inside, and John peeked around the flat. It looked as though he’d just been moving in; cardboard boxes, books, dvds, and all sorts of other things littered the floor. He glanced at Sherlock nervously; this would be a bit tricky.

            “Where did the break in occur?” Sherlock asked, his hands clasped behind his back.

            “Just back here, in my bedroom,” he replied. He gestured towards a small hallway on the other side of the room. “This way.”

            John quickly leaned closer to whisper to Sherlock. “It would be much easier if you just let me grab you or something, Sherlock, there’s boxes all over the floor. You’ll never make it with me just giving you directions, even if I could.”

            Sherlock hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “Nonsense. I’ll be fine.”

            John repressed a sigh. _Patience,_ he reminded himself.

            “You coming?” Mark called from the bedroom.

            “Yeah, one minute,” John replied.

            “Instructions, John,” Sherlock reminded him. John glanced around, trying to map a clear path through the room.

            “Uh... Try two steps to your right, three forward, another to the left- Sherlock, stop!”

            Sherlock had been trying to follow John’s directions as he gave them, doing well until that last step to the left- he stumbled over a box, running headlong into the wall.

            “What’s going on out there?” Mark yelled.

            “Nothing! It’s all fine!” John yelled back as he walked over to Sherlock. He picked himself up, carefully feeling along the wall for support. John tried to grab the sleeve of his coat, but he quickly pulled his arm away.

            “I’m _fine,”_ he hissed. John stepped back. Sherlock brushed himself off, huffed in frustration. “Try again, and give _accurate_ direction this time.”

            John pushed away the quickly building irritation, and looked around again. They were fairly close to the bedroom doorway now, with a mostly clear path.

            “Alright, one more step to the left, then four forwards. Turn to the right, then walk three forwards. You’ll be in the doorway then.”

            Sherlock nodded, listening to all of the instructions before attempting them this time. He walked differently now, feeling around with a bit of trepidation. John watched with relief, however, as he successfully made his way to the bedroom door. John stepped in front of him, leading the way inside.

            “Take the scenic route, did you?” Mark joked. John smiled in return. Mark looked up at Sherlock, then pointed towards a window on the far wall.

            “I think they got in through the window. I can’t see any broken locks or anything, but I can’t really think of any other way they’d have gotten in,” he said.

            “Six steps forward,” John whispered.

            “And this happened last night?” he asked. Mark nodded.

            “Yeah, it was the weirdest thing. The windows were all locked; I guess the landlady had them that way since no one lived here. I wasn’t moved in enough yet to go through and unlock them all. I even slept on the couch, since my bed wasn’t in yet.”

            Sherlock nodded, then took six careful steps forward.

            “John?” he said. John walked over.

            “Describe the window to me,” he said quietly.

            “It’s a normal window. Two panes, one slides up. No broken locks, no broken glass.”

            “Yes, brilliant, John,” he said sarcastically. “Anything that isn’t obvious?”

            John frowned, looking a bit closer. After a few moments, he huffed.

            “Well, ah... The window is clean. There’s no fingerprints or anything. No dust, either. The landlady must have just cleaned this.”

            Sherlock smiled, and stood.

            “Or, something else took the dust away.” He turned around, began to walk. “Mark, I believe that-“

            His sentence was cut off as his foot caught a bunch in the carpet, and he fell. John stood back, but Mark bent down to help pick him up.

            “Oh, mate, are you alright-?”

            “I am _fine!”_ Sherlock said, putting emphasis on each word. Mark stepped back.

            “Sorry,” he mumbled. Sherlock stood, and John got a bit nervous at the look on his face. He seemed disoriented, irritated, even a bit panicked.

            “Sherlock?” he said quietly.

            Sherlock began to try and walk out of the room. “John, we need to leave,” he said. He was doing well, but just barely remembered the room incorrectly- he walked right into the bedside table, knocking what appeared to be a rather expensive vase to the floor. He froze at the sound of shattering porcelain.

            “Oh, _Christ_ ,” Mark said angrily, walking quickly over to the shards. “ _What are you,_ _blind?_ ”

            John sucked in a sharp breath. The tension that immediately filled the room was practically tangible; it was obvious that the situation had just taken a very sharp turn for the worse. Mark looked up after a moment, seeming to be confused at the apparent stress of the other two men. He glanced between them, realisation suddenly dawning on his face.

            “Wait, are you?” he asked quietly. “Mr. Holmes, are you... Blind?”

            Sherlock stood perfectly still, and John was worried that something had broken in his mind. No one had said it out loud around him, even though they all knew it. It was almost an unspoken rule; something had happened to Sherlock, but under no circumstance were they to directly address it. And yet, there it was, right out in the open.

            There was a long, deafening silence. Finally, Mark put his head in his hands.

            “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t- I thought-“ he let out a long breath. He paused a moment, and then laughed. “It’s amazing, though, honestly. How do you even do this? How can you do detective work if you can’t see?”

            _Oh Jesus,_ John thought.

            “Sherlock,” he said quietly. Sherlock simply turned slightly, feeling around. He eventually found the sleeve of John’s coat and grabbed it. John looked up at him, crumpling at the sheer vulnerability on Sherlock’s face. He wanted so badly to make it stop, to make him sure of himself again, but somehow John couldn’t find the words.

            “Take me outside, please,” Sherlock said quietly. John paused another couple moments, then shot a look at Mark. He looked back, confused.

            “I don’t understand,” he said.

            “I’ll send someone from Scotland Yard over,” John replied. “Have a nice day.”

            John walked out of the flat and onto the main street. He hailed a cab, and they both stepped inside, sitting in silence during the long ride home.

            Sherlock didn’t let go of his sleeve.


	7. Getting Sorted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The clock ticked, marking three hours since they’d arrived home._
> 
> _Sherlock hadn’t spoken once._

            The clock ticked, marking three hours since they’d arrived home.

            Sherlock hadn’t spoken once.

            John had racked his brain, trying desperately to think of something, _anything_ to make the situation better, to fix everything- but _Christ,_ What was he supposed to say? It’d just been made painfully obvious that Sherlock couldn’t continue his all-important work in his current condition; it was entirely possible that he may never go back to it. Thinking back on previous conversations – _All that matters is the work. Without that, my brain rots._ – John wasn’t entirely sure if he could do anything to help. He’d be damned if he didn’t at least try, though.

                He’d tried making tea, even adding a bit of honey; the cup sat cold and untouched beside the sofa. He’d tried the usual apologies and sympathetic gestures, but they unsurprisingly had no effect. He now sat in his chair, glancing over at Sherlock every couple of minutes, finding him in the exact same position each time; sitting straight up on the couch staring into space, hands clasped in his lap. Every once in a while there would be some sign of consciousness in the form of a twitching finger, or a sharper breath than the one before it. For the most part though, Sherlock sat in a much heavier silence than John had ever seen him in before.

                It was awful to see him this way.

                “Sherlock?” he said, deciding to give conversation another try. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

                Sherlock didn’t reply. John couldn’t say he’d been expecting one, but was hopeful nonetheless.

                He sighed. “Sherlock, I know you’re probably off in your head somewhere, but you can probably still hear what I’m saying. At least, I think you can. All I want to say is if there’s any way I can help you, you have to tell me. I don’t want you to stay like this forever, staring off into space on the couch.”

                Sherlock’s lips parted slightly, and John waited anxiously for a reply. After five more minutes of silence, however, it was obvious that nothing was coming.

                “Look, I know this is difficult. I know this is probably the worst thing that’s ever happened to you,” he paused a moment. “What I don’t know is exactly what’s going on in your head. And honestly, Sherlock, I’m worried. I don’t know how things work in your mind, but… God, I don’t know. Just… I’m here, alright? I can help, and so can Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Mycroft- Hell, I think anyone who’s known you for more than five minutes would be willing to help you somehow. So… You don’t have to go it alone. I really hope you know that.”

                He hesitated a couple moments, hoping for a reply; still nothing came. He sighed one more time, then walked out of the sitting room.

* * *

 

                “John?”

                John was startled awake, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if he’d been dreaming or not. He glanced at his phone; it was just past 3 AM.

                “John?” he yelled again, more urgent this time.

                That was decidedly not just a dream.

                John jumped out of bed and practically ran to the sitting room. He looked around, eventually finding Sherlock in his chair holding a rather large pile of papers.

                “Sherlock?” he said. He walked closer, trying to get a better look.

                “Are these case files?” Sherlock asked quietly. John opened a couple of folders, peeked at the papers inside.

                “Yes,” he replied. Sherlock shoved them towards him, and John had to stumble a bit to keep them from falling to the floor.

                “Good. Throw them away,” he said.

                John froze. “What?” he asked.

              “Throw them away. I want them out of the flat. Make sure you look around and grab any that I might have missed.”

                John stared back at him incredulously. He laughed once, and Sherlock looked offended.

                “I’m serious,” he said quietly.

                “Sherlock, why-?”

                “Can you _please_ just follow _my_ instructions for once? Do you have to question everything I say?” he spat back.

                John still didn’t move.

                “Oh for God’s sake-“ Sherlock said, standing now. He grabbed the stack from John and walked to the window, using fingertips to feel around the edge of the table. He opened it up, dumping all of the papers into the bins below.

                “Are there any more?”

                “Sherlock-“

                “ _Are there any more?”_

                John sighed, glanced around a bit. There were, in fact, a couple more files lying around.

                “No,” John replied.

                Sherlock gave a long sigh, and then flopped into his chair, head hung back.

                “What was that about, then?” John asked after a couple moments.

                Sherlock was silent a couple moments, that same carefully blank expression taking hold.

                “I needed to be rid of them,” he replied.

                “But… Why now? They’ve been collecting dust on that desk for months, why would they bother you now?”

                Sherlock was silent for a long while, and John was beginning to worry that he’d slipped off again.

                “Reminders,” he finally said quietly.

                “I still don’t understand,” John replied.

                Sherlock turned towards him, the mask slipping a moment.

                “Don’t you see, John? Even if I can’t read them, even if I’ll never be able to read them or look over them again, they’re there. They’re a set of objects that I made the mistake of getting a sentimental attachment to, and now it’s ruining me, because they’re reminders. Reminders of a life that’s gone, one that was taken away in an instant, and one that I can _never go back to,_ as was so obviously proven yesterday,” he paused a moment, taking a deep breath.

“To be perfectly honest, John, I’m _afraid._ I’m afraid, and angry, and I need anything that’s going to bring up these damned feelings to be out of the way. Even knowing that those little reminders were in the same room felt like a mockery, just a shadow of something that I’ll never be again, and I don’t want to feel that way. _That_ is why now, and _that_ is why I needed them gone.”

               John was at a loss for words. He just stood, mouth hanging slightly agape. In the now six years he’d known the man, he couldn’t remember a time when Sherlock was ever so open. It took a couple moments to even process what was said, that this was something that was even happening. Christ, Sherlock was in worse shape than John had even begun to think he was. He’d suspected something was wrong, for sure, and was certain that the words of the client hadn’t helped, but maybe he’d been giving Sherlock just a little bit too much leeway. He was only human, after all.

                Damn it _,_ why couldn’t he everthink of these things when it actually _mattered?_ If he’d just stopped the case, right then and there- No. Not falling into that again. What’s done is done; no point dwelling on it. What mattered right now was getting Sherlock back to normal, or at least as close to normal as possible.

                “That was all I needed. You can go back to bed,” Sherlock said. Sleep did sound nice at the moment, but John hesitated. Sherlock sighed. “There’s no need to stay here. I’ll be fine.”

                John begrudgingly began to walk out of the room.

                “Oh, John?” Sherlock said. John turned to look at him from the doorway. “Make sure you throw away the rest of the files in the morning. I’m not a moron.”

                John sighed, shook his head, and went back upstairs.

                He fell into a restless sleep not long afterwards.

* * *

 

                He woke with a start as two soft knocks sounded on his door. He rubbed at his eyes and stood, opening the door. Mrs. Hudson was on the other side, sniffling lightly.

                “Mrs. Hudson?” he said, reaching to put a hand on her shoulder.

                “Oh, John,” she said. “Isn’t there any way to make you stay?”

                _What?_

“Sorry?” he said.

               “Sherlock told me everything,” she replied. “He said you were leaving first thing in the morning. I couldn’t believe it, and I’m not one to judge, you know, but with the way he’s been, especially with the accident-“

                John held up a hand, stopping her. What the hell was going on?

                “Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “I am absolutely not leaving. I’m not sure how Sherlock got that idea.” He huffed, shook his head.

                “I’ll go have a talk with him,” he said.

                Mrs. Hudson looked slightly confused, but nodded. John brushed past her, walking down into the sitting room. Sherlock sat in the exact same spot as the previous night, his head still hung over the back of the chair.

                “Sherlock,” he said. Sherlock turned towards him. “Did you tell Mrs. Hudson that I was leaving? As in, moving out?”

                “Yes,” he replied. “Because you are.”

                John stood still, staring back at him. He laughed once. “Uh, no, I’m actually not,” he said. “How did you get that idea?”

                “Because I’m the one who decided,” he said quietly. “I was serious when I said I needed every reminder gone, John. And that, unfortunately, includes you.”

                “Sherlock,” he said. He wasn’t really sure what he’d meant to follow that; what could he even say to that? That Sherlock was losing his mind? That he could help if that’s what he needed?

                “I’m sorry, John, but this is non-negotiable,” he said. “If you speak to Mycroft, I’m sure he will get temporary housing set up for you until you can find new settlings.”

                He was absolutely dumbfounded. He wanted to argue, to yell, but what was that going to accomplish besides make everything worse? He wanted to help in any way possible, but Sherlock obviously wasn’t willing to accept anything. No, what John really wanted was for none of this to have ever happened. He wanted things to be back to normal, for them to be working on a case as usual. He wanted Sherlock to have sight, and he wanted to absolutely _murder_ whoever was behind the bomb that had taken that away from him. John mulled everything over for a couple silent moments, finally coming to a decision.

                “Alright,” he said with a nod. Sherlock’s head snapped up.

                “Fine. I’ll go pack my things,” John said. “I’ll be out of the flat within the hour.”

                Sherlock was silent a moment, lips parted. He finally put his head back again.

                “Good,” he replied. “I wish you the best of luck.”

                John stood silent for another long moment, then walked upstairs. He picked up his phone, dialed the emergency number given to him years ago. The voice on the other end picked up after only one ring.

                “Mycroft? We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter won't be quite as angsty, I know this one was kind of heavy with it :v
> 
> Stick it out, Sherlock isn't down yet!


	8. Realisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s as if something more than just sight is missing. Something… Vital._

            The darkened minutes stretch forth in an endless tedium. It’s difficult to tell without seeing the color of the light filtering into the room, but it has been approximately 2 days, 3 hours, and 42 minutes since John left; my last connection to the Work.

            It still leaves an odd ache in my chest that I was forced to make him leave, but it was necessary. Going into the Mind Palace was no longer an option; the events in Mark Talbot’s flat were the last blow needed to the old door inside, and it’s now flooded with shadows. Any more than three minutes inside results in a deep, crushing… Feeling. There’s no way to properly describe it, not in any language I am fluent in. Regardless, going inside for anything more than what’s necessary to retrieve bits of information is no longer an option. Therefore, the outside world needed purged of anything that may bring forth any semblance of sentiment for our- My cases. Unfortunately, that included John.

            And yet… There’s still a nagging emptiness to everything. Every movement has a dull sluggishness, every action feels utterly pointless. It feels as if there really _is_ no point to anything. That odd numbness, the same from the day I was first told of my injuries, crept in not more than a couple hours after John left. I should have probably been alarmed at the fact that a day ago I felt the need to use again for the first time in years, but there was absolutely nothing. It’s as if the very idea of emotion has completely disappeared; I’m beginning to doubt that I would be able to be upset if I even tried. No, all that remains is that same emptiness and almost unwillingness to even exist.

            The only thing I’ve thought about in the past 48 hours has been _why. Why_ is there that emptiness, _why_ didn’t throwing everything away work, _why_ didn’t making him leave work?

It’s as if something more than just sight is missing. Something… Vital. I know it’s neither the cases nor the case files; I went through and deleted any and all attachment I could to them. By this time, only the tiniest inkling of annoyance should remain, not this… Loss. That’s the word for it; the emptiness, the crushing, pulling shadow… Loss.

Idiot. How could I have let myself get so attached to something like one of my senses? If John could hear me now-

The thought of John strikes a painful blow; that was unexpected. The ability to feel comes rushing back rather suddenly, and I’m nearly overwhelmed by it. A coolness seeps into my blood, a knife twists inside-

_No, damn it, keep it under control!_

It’s far too late to push it back now. I’m honestly unsure I’d even have the strength for it at this point. I sag back into the couch, and lie still for a long while; not thinking, just wallowing in the cruel undercurrent of sentiment that’s taken hold.

* * *

 

“Sherlock?”

Mrs. Hudson, back from the bakery by the smell of whatever she’s carrying.

“Dear, are you alright?” she asks softly.

“I’m fine,” I snap. I didn’t quite mean to say it that way; she’s been far too kind to deserve treatment like that.

I feel her sit at the edge of the couch, just beside my leg.

“Have you eaten today?” she asks. I shake my head; I haven’t eaten since before John and I left for Mark’s flat-

_No. No more._

“Your tea’s gone cold,” she says.

Ah, tea. I’d forgotten that she’d brought it that morning; it’s gone untouched.

“Sorry,” I say. I’m a bit surprised at how hoarse my voice has gotten; how long has it been since I’ve drank something?

I can practically feel her stunned stare, shifting to a concerned touch on my arm.

“Oh Sherlock,” she said quietly. “I really wish John would have stayed.”

An odd twinge in the chest at that; John.

_John, John, **John,** what is it about John?_

“With your... Injury and all- I’m not one to talk, you know, but I would have thought if for nothing else but him being a doctor, he would have known to stay-“

“I sent him away,” I say, cutting her off.

“You what?” She asks, surprise in her voice.

“He was another connection,” I explain.

Confused silence.

I huff. “The Work, Mrs. Hudson. It’s become rather obvious that I can no longer take cases, and therefore anything related to that life needed to be thrown out. I threw the case files into your bins not long ago. Unfortunately, it also became obvious that John had become intertwined into those memories as well,” I pause a moment, give a long-winded sigh. “So, I made arrangements with Mycroft. John should be on his way to a flat of his choice by now.”

“Sherlock Holmes, I can’t believe you!” She scolds. It takes me by surprise, and I turn towards her. “Sending John away is the worst thing you could have possibly done! All this time, all he’s done is care for you, and you look after him the best you can in return! He’s quite a bit more to you than just another part of… Whatever it is you do, and we both know that.”

            It takes a moment to even process what’s just been said. It’s shocking, and almost even offensive, the tone that she’s taken and what she’s saying at first, but after a moment it all comes together like pieces to a puzzle.

            John…

            I can feel my heart start to beat hard. Oh, so _stupid_ \- I should have seen it sooner. It’s always John, always has been; the emptiness. The quietness of the flat without his heavy, military steps on the floorboards, the hard silence of the kitchen without his usual noises of tea-making, the way the very room seems to shift in feeling whenever he enters; a lack of John.

            It’s been staring me in the face for so long; I must have been a moron to not see it sooner. Looking at it objectively, all the signs are there; rapid pulse, a crushing sadness and anxiety without him, my thoughts constantly drifting to the man and his quirks. As much as it aches to admit it to myself, I know what it all means. They’re all things I’ve seen before, whether it be in clients or in friends with misplaced interest.

            I need John, always needed him. I’ve just been blind to it.

            And it might be too late to correct my error.


	9. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“My brother’s line of work is a dangerous one, and it always has been; the only real surprise is that he wasn’t injured sooner.”_

            “It had to happen eventually, I suppose,” Mycroft said, pouring a glass of brandy. “My brother’s line of work is a dangerous one, and it always has been; the only real surprise is that he wasn’t injured sooner.”

            “Yes, well, despite when it may have happened, it’s taken a serious toll on him,” John replied. He walked forwards, sitting in one of the cushioned chairs. “I’ve known him long enough to know that he gets in a strop sometimes, even for weeks at a time, but nothing like this.”

            “Well what can you expect?” Mycroft sat heavily into the chair opposite John, glass in hand. “For years the focus of his attention, possibly even his whole being, has been his work. He’s just lost a vital tool to that work - and if what you’ve told me is correct, he’s also been rather directly shown that he can’t just return to it.” He gave a long-winded sigh, took a sip of his drink. “It’s no surprise that it’s affected him to such a degree.”

            “I just don’t know what to do,” John said. “I tried everything I could. I went along with all of his little experiments, made sure he actually remembered to eat and sleep while he was working. It was a mistake to let that go on as long as it did, I suppose.”

            “Quite far from it, actually,” Mycroft replied. John looked back at him, confused. “Had you stopped him any sooner than he was, he would have forever thought that you’d just held him back; kept him from doing those last few steps that were needed to get him back into shape. Allowing him to find out on his own that things have changed quite drastically was precisely what needed to be done.”

            “Okay, maybe, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s an absolute disaster now. Before I left, he hardly drank, never ate, and didn’t seem to sleep either. And...” John paused a moment. “There’s something… Wrong with him. I mean it, it’s like he’s not himself. The way he was acting, it was almost like something snapped. It’s like... He’s not there, anymore.”

            Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He sighed, leaned back. “I did see this behavior in him, once.”

            “When?”

            “When he overdosed for the first time,” Mycroft said simply.

            John stared back at him, momentarily at a loss for words. Christ, what could he say? If anybody knew how Sherlock worked, it was his brother; and if _he_ said something that serious, things were much worse than he’d thought.

Finally he let out a long breath, then leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table between them.

            “Mycroft,” he said. “You need to help me. I don’t know how you’re going to do it, but you’re going to get me back into that flat. He needs help, Mycroft, and I need to be there.”

            Mycroft looked back at him, staring with a calculating gaze. After a couple moments, realization momentarily showed on his face, then slipped into an unreadable look. John sat quietly, waiting.

            “Very well,” he said. He looked directly at John with a hard stare. “You will have to take this slowly, and do exactly as I say. You will also do well in the future to _not_ give me orders.”

            John nodded, once.

            “Good. There are several things that will need done…”       

* * *

 

“Sherlock, are you alright, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asks, voice filled with concern.

It seems that I haven’t gotten control of my facial expressions quite yet. And yet, at the moment, I can’t bring myself to care; all I can focus on right now is the distinct lack of John.

“You’re right,” I say quietly.

“Well… Good. I’m glad you see it that way,” She replies, obviously shocked.

Yes, she might be right, but it doesn’t help the fact that I’ve foolishly pushed him aside. He’s gone, now, and has been for the past couple days. He was angry the last time we spoke, and likely chose a new flat quickly. I’m not even sure where in London he would have chosen; would he even still be in London? _Damn it, why couldn’t I have seen this sooner?_

“John,” I say, slightly embarrassed at the light crack in my voice.

“What?” Mrs. Hudson says.

“John,” I repeat. “I… I need John.”

I seem to have left her speechless. The ache in my chest returns, and it’s nearly unbearable. I can’t remember the last time that I was so overwhelmed with feelings of any kind, let alone the harsh emptiness of loss. Loss, and need – More than anything else, I _need_ John.

“Phone,” I say. “Give me my phone. I need to speak with Mycroft.”

“Where is it, dear?” she asks, standing. I think – Where did I last-? Oh. Right.

I sigh, put a hand on my face. “Two days ago, in your bins. Taken away, by now.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” She says, an odd mix of scolding and sympathy in her voice. “Is there anything I can do?”

            I would ask to use her phone, but I deleted Mycroft’s number a long while ago out of misplaced spite. Any and all written ones he’d given to me were immediately thrown in the fireplace. If my eyesight were functional, I’d already be out the door and tracking Mycroft down in person; but it’s not. There’s nothing to be done.

            “No,” I say.

            She sighs, gives one last comforting rub of her hand. “Well, I’ll leave the door open,” she says, standing. “Just call if you need anything, dear.” With that, she walks out the door and down the stairs, and I’m left alone again.

            _Damn it, why can’t anything be done_? That’s all that my life has been since that bloody bomb went off, is things being out of control. Nothing could be done to save both myself and John, nothing could be done to repair my eyesight, nothing could be done to keep back how I felt, and nothing can be done to get back in contact with John. John…

            I know it’s childish. And yet, I can’t stop thinking about it – Never have I felt so much _need,_ not between cases, maybe not even during darker years where my life was controlled by drugs. I suppose, in a way, he is a drug – his voice, his sense of humor, his moral compass, everything about him; a drug that I’ve gotten addicted to.

            I need him so badly. Even if just for a moment, even if all I got was a brief touch from him again, it would be enough. Just enough to remember and stow away for times like this again-

            “Sherlock?”

            Everything stops. Dead silence overtakes the flat, and it seems like that one word was just a cruel hallucination –

            “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

            _John…_

            “John?” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

            “Christ, have you even moved since I left?” he says, walking closer.

I can practically feel myself break – never have I been as thankful for my hearing as I am now. Without sight, it’s almost heightened; I can hear the creak of each individual floorboard as he steps closer, hear the subtle increase in volume of his breathing, each and every change in pitch and tone as he speaks. I never want to stop hearing it again.

Suddenly, I remember that he asked a question; and I’m not entirely sure of the answer. I hadn’t really thought about it.

“I...” I say. “I don’t think so.”

He gives a long sigh, one that would usually be accompanied by a pinch of the bridge of his nose. A gesture that, for him, signals exasperation, frustration, even anger if severe enough a situation; would this qualify?

“Jesus…” he says, long-winded. He doesn’t sound angry. He just sounds… Tired.

“Come on, sit up,” he says. He sets a stack of papers rather unceremoniously on the floor, marked by the flutter of shuffling pages. He reaches out to help me sit up, and his touch sends an unexpected jolt across my skin. I flinch out of reflex, and he pulls his hand away.

“No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine.”

I can almost feel his confused stare – nonetheless, he reaches out to help again, more carefully this time. Eventually I’m sitting up for the first time in days; it takes a moment for my head to clear.

“Stay here, I’m going to get you something to drink,” he says. I begin to say, _let me come with you,_ but he cuts me off. “Not another word, you’re obviously massively dehydrated.”

Ah. He’s gone into “Doctor Watson” mode, then; slipping into his usual bedside manner. Normally, this would be a hardship to endure; oddly enough, I find the idea comforting at the moment. The minutes tick by, slowly turning to hours as he brings tea and small bits of food, looks over various other things and asks how I’ve been feeling physically, mentally ticking items off a checklist. As evening slips to night, he sighs and leans back into the couch, takes the now-empty mug from me and sets it aside.

“I need you to be perfectly honest with me,” he says, suddenly serious. “I didn’t see any marks on you, but you didn’t… Use while I was gone, right?”

I shake my head; it’s an honest answer, and I feel no need to tell him that the only reason why was because I didn’t have the sight to place the needle properly.

“Good,” he says. He breathes deep, obviously relaxing for the first time today. “Good.”

It’s silent for a couple moments, and at first it’s pleasant; after a couple more, however, it becomes almost overbearing, feels too much like the cool emptiness that the rooms held not more than a couple hours ago.

“Keep talking,” I say quietly.

“What?” he says, sleepily. It’s not that late, is it?

“Keep talking,” I repeat. “I… I want to hear you.”

The words slip out before I can stop them, and I’m not entirely sure where they even came from. John seems equally shocked, but obliges soon.

“Alright…” he says. “Well… You might be angry at me for this, but-“ he reaches down, grabs the stack of papers from earlier. “-I grabbed the case files. Noticed your phone in there, too, figured you threw it out either by mistake or while you were shouting abuse at it. If you don’t want them in here, I understand, I’ll find somewhere else for them, but I thought it was a shame to just throw them out-“

“It’s alright,” I reply. Shockingly, that’s the truth - it doesn’t feel like such a bad thing to have them in the flat, anymore. “You can just set them back where they were before. You can sort them, if you really want to.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” he says with a yawn. “I’m beat-“

“Don’t leave,” I say, probably a bit too quickly. He doesn’t seem to catch it though, just huffs.

“Alright, alright,” he says. “What else do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know, talk about what you usually do. How your day was, or something,” I say.

“You sure you’re feeling alright?” he asks, jokingly. I huff at him, and he laughs; I feel myself smile genuinely for the first time in weeks at the sound.

“Yes, fine. Just talk,” I say.

“Alright, well, uh… I had a bit of shopping to do. I hadn’t picked a flat, mind you; I’d just been staying with someone. She insisted that _I_ be the one to do the grocery shopping, since I was using her space. That’s fair, I suppose. But like I was saying, I went out with the list, but you know how those bloody machines are…”

            His words begin to run together, just sound in the background. Something occurs to me after a while; John’s voice is an odd comfort. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I suppose I have more time to notice these things now – it’s true, though. Strangely enough, the way the syllables shift in pitch in rhythm with the emotion of what he’s saying is… Nice. I’m not entirely sure how to describe it otherwise. The words themselves weave together, painting a picture of his day as clearly as any indicators shown on his person might have. I begin to think; maybe… Maybe all isn’t lost, after all. New methods are all that are needed. Maybe I was too quick the first time, eager to get back into things; if I could work more slowly, learn to take in information in a new way… It could work.

            I’m not sure when I got so tired, but suddenly it’s brought to my full attention. My eyes slip closed of their own accord.

            With the comforting stream of words and sentences creating a vivid enough image to substitute for sight, even if only for a while, I quietly slip into the first restful sleep I’ve had since this all began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To give a bit of warning, I think this is starting towards the last couple chapters. I don't think it's necessarily there yet, but I'd hate to end the story without warning.
> 
> Hope you've been liking it so far :)


	10. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Maybe things weren’t so bad off, after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: this chapter contains deductions that are incredibly full of holes. I'm not the consulting detective, I only attempt to write his dialogue :v

            The first thing John noticed as he slowly woke up in the morning was that he wasn’t on Sarah’s couch. It was where he’d woken up for the past three days, and it was a bit disorienting for a moment until he remembered the previous evening. He sighed, closed his eyes again. He was back in 221b with Sherlock, who was hopefully now on the road to recovery. _God,_ the state he’d been in… John couldn’t help but feel guilty, again. After seeing how quickly Sherlock ate and drank what was given to him, something that John had never seen him do before, he vowed to not leave like that again. He didn’t care what Sherlock said, this was how things were going to be now, whether he liked it or not.

After a couple moments, John had his second realization of the day; there was something warm with just a bit of weight leaning onto him. He opened his eyes again, looked to the side.

            Sherlock was fast asleep, head lying on John’s shoulder, his hands clasped in his lap. John gaped a bit, almost disbelieving that he was asleep at all. Of course, he wasn’t even sure if Sherlock had slept while he was gone; this could be the first few hours of sleep he’d had in days. This made him a bit reluctant to wake him up or move; when Sherlock slept, he well and truly needed it. And it was… Nice, oddly enough; almost comforting. John tried not to think too hard on the implications of him _liking_ waking up to find Sherlock sleeping on him, and laid his head back with a sigh. If he was going to be stuck here a while, he might as well try to get back to sleep.

* * *

 

The next time John woke up, only a few hours later judging by the shift in the sunlight streaming through the windows, he was alone on the couch. He sat forward with a start, glancing around but not seeing Sherlock anywhere.

“Sherlock?” he called.

“Kitchen,” he replied. John walked over quickly, finding Sherlock standing calmly by the counter, a mug of tea in hand.

“How did you-?”

“It took the better part of an hour, but eventually the combination of my touch and hearing along with my mental map of the kitchen proved adequate to make some tea. There’s a cup for you just a couple inches off to the left of the kettle, if you’d like some.”

“Thank you,” John said, voice quiet with awe. He supposed it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise at this point; despite any shortcomings he may have had before, Sherlock _had_ in fact successfully navigated the flat. It was a logical next step that he should be able to figure out where some things were. He happened to glance at the open cabinet, and noticed with more than a little alarm that some of the toxins Sherlock had been experimenting with were sitting much too close nearby.

“Don’t worry about the poisons, I’m quite sure this is sugar,” he said, taking a sip. “Although if I fall on the floor or stop breathing within the next couple minutes, you might want to double check on that.”

John laughed a bit at that, and Sherlock smiled. He sighed, leaned back on the counter with his own cup in hand. He’d spent practically every moment worrying about Sherlock ever since the accident; it was more than a relief to see him beginning to get back to his old self. He took a sip, pleasantly surprised to find it just the way he liked it.

Maybe things weren’t so bad off, after all.

* * *

 

“Sit,” John said, leading Sherlock towards his chair. He plopped down, and sighed.

“If you’re going to lecture me, I can assure you I’ve already heard all-“

“No, nothing like that,” John replied, cutting him off. “I, er- I have some things for you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, just a hint of surprise tingeing his voice.

John took the stack of books, sat a couple of them on Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock sighed. “John, I don’t think _reading_ is going to work very well-“

“Can you stop talking? Just for five minutes?”

He huffed, but obliged. John opened up one of the books, laid it flat. He hesitated a moment, then took Sherlock’s hand, guiding it to the page.

“John-?” Sherlock said, questioning, but went quiet once his fingers touched the paper. He moved his hand around, slightly, getting a feel for the texture.

“This is braille,” he said softly. John laughed quietly a bit.

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock,” he replied.

He expected some kind of snarky response, but Sherlock was still quiet. John looked at his face, searching; his expression was soft, almost one of wonder, but at the same time his brow was furrowed in what seemed like concentration. It was like he was searching, looking into the corners of his memory; had he learned braille for a case some time ago, and was trying to remember how it went? John couldn’t be sure, but after a couple moments he felt the need to speak up.

“I got these to try and get you started. That one’s about something with physics, I’m not entirely sure to be honest,” he reached down, grabbed two more books. “This one’s beekeeping and this one- probably should have given it to you first –is the guide book. There’s an audio tape to go with it.”

He placed the two books on the table beside Sherlock, who was still brushing his fingers lightly over the embossed bumps on the page. “There’s a place where I can get books already made into braille, or if you really need something, there’s a printer,” John continued. “Normally that’d be expensive, but a certain family member of yours told me that you ‘needn’t worry about any cost in your care’.”

Sherlock was silent another couple moments. When he finally lifted his head, his face held an unreadable expression; John had never wished that he was better at reading faces, but he had began to as of late.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock finally said, quietly. “It… Really means a lot.”

John was taken aback a moment, not quite sure of what to say. He’d hoped for some kind of thank you, of course, but…

“No problem,” he replied. “Hopefully it helps out.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Maybe…?” John began, but then trailed off.

“Yes?” Sherlock said.

“Nevermind, it’s not important,” he said. He hoped Sherlock wouldn’t pursue that; sure enough, after just a slight twinge of confusion on his face, he went back to the book. John began to walk out of the room.

“John?” Sherlock said. John looked back expectantly.

“Could you put the cd in my laptop, please? I’d like to get started with this.”

* * *

 

Sherlock gave a long, frustrated sigh as the cane was pressed into his hand again. “John, is this really necessary-?”

“Yes, Sherlock. It’ll help you get around places you don’t know-“

“-But it will also make my condition obvious to anyone who sees-“

“-Nobody cares!”

“ _Everybody cares, John.”_

John was momentarily caught off guard, again. He took a deep breath, steeling himself; even if Sherlock was getting better, that didn’t mean that he wasn’t still insecure about the whole thing. He needed to have patience.

“Look, Sherlock, if you’re that worried about it, we’ll just keep doing what we did before.” John said, taking the cane back.

“What, you whispering little instructions to me like I’m your _dog_?” he replied bitterly.

“That is _not_ how it is, but yes. Or, if you prefer…” John hesitated, trying to decide if he should even suggest it.

“..What?”

“…Well I could…”

“Yes?” There was a hint of impatience in his tone.

“…You could always hold onto my arm, or something.”

Sherlock looked momentarily dumbstruck. “…You’re suggesting I hold onto you to navigate?” he finally said after a couple moments of silence.

“Sorry, it was a dumb suggestion-“

“Yes, that will work nicely.” Sherlock said, cutting him short.

“Oh,” John said. That… Wasn’t what he’d expected. “Alright.”

“Yes,” Sherlock turned back to the table, where he was still feeling each and every corner of the samples in front of him, trying to memorize the texture once again. “Now, could you go grab the rock samples?”

* * *

 

Sherlock and John had been sitting on the park bench for the past hour and a half now. John felt exhausted; not just physically, but mentally as well. The last couple weeks had him working hard, and it was starting to add up.

“Now tell me what you see,” Sherlock said from his left. John sighed.

“Sherlock, I don’t think this will-“

“John, have a bit of faith.”

John wanted to protest, but cut himself off. Sherlock was doing well, and they were both trying something new and going at a much slower pace; why not give it a shot? He finally picked a subject after a couple moments.

“Well, she’s a taller woman, sitting over on the hill. Dark, long hair. Looks to be about late forties?”

“Yes, good. Now something important?”

John huffed. “You could specify _important,_ you know.”

“You know my methods, John. Apply them. Think objectively, in details; if you could only glimpse a suspect for a moment, or a victim, what would you memorize?”

John thought about it, but couldn’t really come up with anything in particular. He finally settled on picking out a couple of other facts.

“Alright, well, from here it looks like she’s alone. No one’s come by in the last 15 minutes, so she’s not here with family or anything.”

“Getting closer, but still try to stick to objectivity for now. Don’t make assumptions right away, just take in details.”

“Okay…” He thought about it, trying to think what Sherlock would look for; it had been months since they’d been on a proper case now, and he was trying to think of the things that he’d always rattled off in his deductions. “She’s wearing a short sundress- pink, with bright blue spots all over – along with a pair of trainers. She’s using a tablet, possibly a kindle by the logo on the back- it’s kind of hard to tell from here. Er… She brought some lunch, it looks like. A coke and some chips- not very healthy-“

“Remember, John, no extras. Only details. That will be enough, though.”

“So… Was it good?”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes.”

John waited for something following that – _if you count horribly obvious as good,_ or something of that nature – but nothing came. Sherlock seemed genuinely impressed, and John couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride in that. “Alright… Could you actually get anything out of that?”

“Not much,” Sherlock admitted. “Unmarried, recently divorced. Tries very hard to seem young. Probably out here to attract a potential date, much younger than herself- Too bad for you, John.”

“How on earth did you get that?”

“Easy, really. You can start with her age- late forties, you said. Well, take that along with her short dress, trainers, kindle, and lunch, and you’ve got the rest.”

“Right.” John sat a moment, confused. “How?”

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. Normally, John would have gotten irritated- now, though, he was perfectly happy to take impatient, know-it-all Sherlock. “If your description of her outfit is correct, that’s usually reserved for women younger than her- really, around university age. The kindle- she likes to read, but is probably trying to ‘get with the times’. Look at her again, has she gotten irritated with it? Perhaps set it to the side?”

John looked over at her again, and sure enough, she was desperately pressing a button on the screen. She scowled at it, then shut it off, setting it on the grass beside her.

“Yeah, actually, that’s what she just did.”

“Thought so. So there we go, strike number two. Now, lastly, we’ve got the lunch. A coke and chips- it’s not her usual fare. In fact, I would suspect if you look closer, she’s not enjoying it very much.”

“Looks to be that way,” John replied.

“So, there you have it. Look at it all together; she’s trying _very_ hard to put on a young image. Now, she’s unmarried. She’s been here nearly as long as us, if she was married, she’d likely have brought her partner along, don’t you think?”

“I suppose-“

“Right. So, unmarried, late forties, trying to seem younger than she is? Recently divorced, likely because of a ‘lost spark’ or some similar nonsense, feeling insecure. She brings herself to the park, tries to look appealing, and waits for Mr. Right.” Sherlock took on his usual look after finishing an explanation: quiet pride, with a mix of almost condescension towards whoever asked it to be explained in the first place- in this case, John.

“If only we could see if you were right,” John said after a couple moments.

“Well, there is one way,” Sherlock said, smiling to himself.

“Hmm?”

“You could go ask her on a date,”

“Ah, no,” John said. “Not really my type.”

“Ah, what a shame,” Sherlock said with mock disdain. “Now we’ll never know.”

“A shame indeed,” John replied, and took a sip of the coffee in his lap.

John was feeling oddly proud of the both of them. Himself, because he’d managed to somehow pick out enough detail for Sherlock to get something out of it. And Sherlock for- well, everything else. For giving everything a chance again, for learning braille so quickly - only eight hours, and he was finished with the guide book and reading the others – for trying the samples again. And he was grateful too, in a way. Sherlock had started everything again, but this time it was different; he was almost careful to include John at every turn. Whether that meant fetching more samples or books, or whatever they’d just done in the park, he seemed to genuinely value whatever John had to offer.

And he was only more than happy to give it.

* * *

 

John happened to catch a glance of the calendar hanging on his wall as he got dressed that morning; November 22nd. It had been three months since Sherlock’s accident; God, three months. It felt like years. But today was special; it was something they’d been working hard towards, and the anticipation made John’s stomach twist into knots. If this didn’t work out- Well, John really didn’t want to think of it.

He came downstairs, Finding Sherlock already in his coat, fumbling a bit with the pockets. Eventually, he pulled out the gloves, put them on. He sighed shakily, and John looked at him in concern.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asked. “We have time. It’s not too late to give it another couple weeks.”

“No, John, I need to do this now,” Sherlock replied. “And besides- as long as you’re there, and we use everything that we’ve been using over the past weeks, it’ll all be fine.”

John smiled. “Yeah, I’m sure it will be,” he said. He walked over, wound his arm around Sherlock's.

“Alright, Scotland Yard it is,” he said, and led them both out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Just a couple of notes:  
> You might have noticed that I updated the chapter count. I'm pretty solid on 12 chapters now; At most it'll spill over and end up at 13. So we're almost there!  
> I'll be going out of state on the 23rd, and I won't have access to a computer until I'm back on the 31st. I'll try and get a chapter to you next week to hold you over, but apologies in advance if I don't make it :c
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, I've loved your comments and I really hope you've enjoyed it, and I hope you'll like how it ends :)


	11. The Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally gets on the case for the first time since his accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for any errant spelling or grammar errors, it's 3 AM and my proofreading skills might not be the best. I'll try and pick any out and fix it the next time I'm on here.

John stepped out of the cab first, paying the driver on the way out. Sherlock was close behind, and automatically grabbed John’s arm.

“Ready?” John asked. Sherlock gave a short nod in response. He was still a bit shaky, and a bit more stiff than usual.

“Hey,” John said softly. “It’ll be alright.”

“Of course it will be,” Sherlock replied, a bit snappish. To John’s relief however, Sherlock relaxed a bit, and they walked through the front doors of Scotland Yard.

John noticed more than a couple long glances as they walked through the spaces between desks, a variety of responses in them; some surprised, some pitiful, and some that almost seemed to say _it’s about time._ John ignored the majority of it, and continued on towards Lestrade’s office.

Greg looked up from his desk with just a bit of surprise.

“John, Sherlock!” he said happily. His face fell just a bit, and his eyes flicked towards John. “Wasn’t expecting to see you two so soon.”

“Yes, well, Sherlock was about to go mad waiting as long as he did,” John said. “He wanted to show up weeks ago, but he needed more time to be ready.”

Sherlock huffed. “Nonsense. I could have done this when I told you, but you insisted on waiting.”

“Whether that’s true or not, we’re here now,” John replied. He turned his attention back towards Lestrade. “What is it that you have for us?”

“Bit of a nasty one,” he said. He stood, walking over to a filing cabinet in the corner. He searched for a moment, then came back to the desk with a file. “A landlady called not too long ago, said she got something ‘disturbing’ in the mail. I figured it wasn’t anything too big, but we weren’t busy, so I sent someone over. This is what she got.”

He laid a photo on the desk in front of John.

“A box?” John asked.

“Yeah, but look at what’s inside,” Lestrade replied.

John looked closer, trying to make out what was inside. His eyes went wide.

“Is that-?”

“Yeah. _Human_ ears, packed in some salt,” Lestrade said. “They’re not fake, either. I had the box sent to Forensics; they say they’re the real thing.”

“God, that’s disgusting…” John said.

“Yeah. Who even does that? Sends someone _ears?”_ he said.

Sherlock huffed, and John startled a bit. He’d almost forgotten he was even standing there, he’d been so quiet.

“Yes, moving on to the actual important bit?” he said impatiently.

“Right,” Lestrade said, nodding once. “The landlady said she thinks they’re from some med students that used to live in her flats. She said they were destroying the place, but weren’t too happy when she finally gave them the boot. We checked up on it; they intern down at the morgue at Bart’s, so we talked to Molly Hooper. She says their inventory checks, so they’re definitely not from any of the bodies there.”

“So you need us to…?” John asked.

“Find who the ears in question belonged to,” Sherlock finished.

Lestrade nodded, then glanced at Sherlock. “Right. We still have the box in the forensics lab, if you’d like to take a look- er,” he paused a moment, then Sherlock sighed.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Yes, we’ll go and take a look. John?”

John stepped to the side to wrap his arm around Sherlock’s again. He found himself resisting the urge to reach down a bit, wind his fingers into Sherlock’s-

“Lead the way,” John said quickly. Lestrade nodded, and opened the door, shutting it behind them.

* * *

 

“Here we are,” the lab attendant said. She set the box on the table, handed John a pair of gloves. “This is still a vital piece of evidence, so _please_ do your best to keep from contaminating it,” she said.

“Thank you, Lewis,” Lestrade said. The woman nodded, then walked out of the room.

John put the gloves on, carefully opened the box. Sure enough, it was filled with rock salt with the ears sitting on top. He silently thanked Sherlock for years of random body parts around 221b; he probably would have gotten sick without it.

“John?” Sherlock said.

“Well, it’s an ordinary cardboard box. Looks to be a shoebox, with the original logo and labeling painted over. It’s almost filled completely with rock salt, or some other similar salt. The ears are sitting right on top. They’re slightly discolored; just a bit more grey than a normal flesh tone,” He looked a bit closer. “The edges where they were cut are a bit ragged. They’re arranged neatly side by side, the inner parts facing each other.”

Sherlock nodded. Lestrade looked between the two of them, eyebrows raised.

“Arranged neatly? That’s a bit ambiguous,” Sherlock said.

“They’re almost perfectly in the center of the box. Whoever put them in here was pretty careful about it,” he looked towards Lestrade. “Unless that was one of your people who did that?”

He shook his head. “No, they said they didn’t touch them. Just opened it up, looked inside, took pictures, and put it in cold storage.”

“Hm,” John said. Sherlock arched a brow.

“Got something?” he said. Lestrade looked at him incredulously.

“Well, it’s just...” John waited a moment.

“Go on,” Sherlock prompted.

“They could just be bad students, I suppose, but I don’t think the med students are the ones who did this,” he said.

“Why’s that?” Lestrade asked.

“Well, if they were taking body parts from a different morgue, or – God forbid - taking them from a body themselves, they would have probably used the proper tools; it would have made a clean cut. These definitely weren’t- they look like they were almost hacked off of the body they came from.” John paused a moment and glanced towards Sherlock, who seemed to be listening. “And even after they got the ears, fingers, or whatever, they wouldn’t have preserved them in a shoebox full of salt. If they were medical students, especially ones working at a morgue, they would have used formaldehyde or something similar. It just doesn’t make sense.”

Lestrade looked at John, seeming both surprised and impressed. Sherlock quirked a small smile, nodding.

“Precisely what I was thinking. Case file?” he said.

Lestrade set down two folders; one in front of John, one in front of Sherlock.

“This came courtesy of your brother,” he said, pointing at Sherlock’s copy. “He said that any time I have you on a case from now on, I’m supposed to send any documents off to him for reprinting in braille. Normally I wouldn’t be too happy about sending away classified files, but I think he actually ranks above me in this case.”

Sherlock seemed to have tuned him out, and was already running his hand across the pages. John opened his copy, and was reading the information over, although he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for.

Lestrade shifted awkwardly. “I suppose I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said. “Just come find me if you need anything.”

Sherlock was still silent. John gave a quick nod, and he walked out.

He returned to the case file, trying to find anything useful. Not too long ago, he would have already been bored half to death and wondering when they could get out and actually _do_ something.

For the time being, however, he was more than happy to be with Sherlock on a case again, a feeling of normalcy taking over for the first time since it all began.

* * *

 

“…It looks like there’s a couple of things that the forensics team _did_ take away. In this picture, the box was tied shut with some rope. It almost looks like a boating knot of some kind…”

* * *

 

“John, are you still reading?”

“Yeah, sorry, just not sure what I’m looking for.”

“You’ve been extremely helpful so far. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Alright.”

“No, I mean it. You’ve been doing very well.”

“…Thank you.”

“...You’re welcome.”

* * *

 

“Oh, stupid, _stupid, stupid!”_ Sherlock yelled, making John jump. He’d slipped into almost a trance, constantly rereading the same sheets and looking over the same photos hoping for something to jump out.

“What, what?” John asked, sitting up straight.

“It’s _obvious, John!”_ he said. “Go get Lestrade, I don’t need anything else.”

John stood, stretched for a moment before rushing out to find him.

* * *

 

“…You’re sure about this?” Lestrade asked, arms folded in front of him as he glanced between the other two men.

“Absolutely,” Sherlock said. “What I’ve personally read combined with the information John has given me make it very clear. I can assure you, if you go and talk to the sister’s husband, he’ll confess quite quickly.”

Lestrade hesitated, then nodded before pulling out his cell phone.

“…Yeah, Belfast. You’re looking for James Browner, probably somewhere around the docks. I’ll send a picture of him. Once you find him, arrest him on suspicion of murder and bring him back here,” he said. He glanced towards Sherlock as the person on the other end spoke. “Yes, that’s what _he_ said to do. Yes, I think it’s reliable. Look, will you just _do it?”_ the conversation went on another couple moments, then he hung up the phone.

“God I hope you two are right,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Do what you like, I’ll get a hold of you to let you know how it turns out.” With that, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving John and Sherlock alone again.

As much as he hated to admit it, John had quite a bit of doubt himself. He had faith in Sherlock, as always, but… This was different.

All he could do is hope, and wait.

* * *

 

Five hours later, John and Sherlock sat in 221b; John in his chair watching telly, Sherlock stretched out on the couch, eyes closed and hands perched in his usual thinking position. He’d been like that for the past hour, deep in his own head. It wasn’t unusual, John supposed, but he still felt just a tinge of worry at the sight. Sherlock had strayed a bit too deep into his own mind in the first few days after his injury, and he wasn’t entirely sure either of them could get through another time like that. John had to admit, though, Sherlock looked much better when he was like this; relaxed, almost peaceful. It would have been easy to mistake him for being asleep, and John might have thought he was if he didn’t know better.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s phone rang from the coffee table, snapping both of them out of their thoughts. Sherlock grabbed it with quick and surprising precision, answering the call as he sat up.

“Yes? Lestrade?” he said. John watched intently for any signs of good or bad news in Sherlock’s face as the conversation went on, his stomach twisting into knots. After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock finally spoke.

“Yes, of course. I understand,” he said, then ended the call. John waited anxiously.

“Well?” he said after a couple moments.

Sherlock smiled ever so slightly. “We were correct,” he said. “The ears belonged to Miss Cushing’s second sister and her lover. Her husband was the murderer, and sent them to what he thought was the first sister to scare her, not knowing that the client lived there instead. She stirred up trouble in the marriage, so he thought it was her fault that he ended up murdering them. A bit of an idiot, honestly.”

John sat back. He’d hoped that Sherlock was right, knew that he _needed_ to be right, but to know now that he’d somehow gotten all of it was both an incredible relief and absolutely amazing.

“Brilliant,” John said, grinning.

Sherlock laughed once. “I’d think after five years of this, John, it wouldn’t quite warrant a ‘brilliant’ anymore.”

He thought it was still just about the _case?_ Of course part of it was, it always was, but Sherlock didn’t seem to quite understand just how amazing it was.

“I wasn’t just talking about the case,” he said. “I mean all of it. That you could…” he hesitated a moment. “That you could still pick it all up like that. It’s amazing. You’re bloody amazing, Sherlock.” He hadn’t quite meant for the last part to come out. He’d meant it, sure, but… It probably could have been worded differently.

Sherlock stopped a moment, not even seeming to breathe. After a couple moments, he relaxed ever so slightly.

“…Thank you, John,” he said, quietly.

“You’re welcome,” John replied quickly. A bit of an uncomfortable silence fell between them. _Damn it, why did he have to say that?_

Thankfully, Sherlock’s ringtone cut the silence in the room. He picked it up, quirked an eyebrow. He handed the phone to John.

“He wants to be put on speakerphone,” Sherlock said. John looked down, pressed the button.

“Alright,” he said.

“Are you both there?” Lestrade said.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

“You need to get down here, now,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“The terror cell is showing activity again, the one from the bombing,” Lestrade said. John heard a sharp breath from Sherlock at the same time he felt himself go cold.

“They know that you saw them. They’re targeting you both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back! Sorry again for how long this took, I know this one took a lot longer than the others :c
> 
> We're finally down to one chapter. I'm almost sad to see it go.
> 
> See you again soon, hope you liked this chapter c:


	12. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are taken to a safe place to wait for the danger to pass.

John stared out the window of the car, watching the familiar city fade into unknown roads. It hadn’t been more than a few seconds after they’d hung up the phone with Lestrade that Mycroft had called, telling them that someone would be along shortly to pick them up. John realized how serious a situation they’d gotten themselves into when Mycroft had asked to speak with him privately, then proceeded to tell him to bring his gun and keep close to Sherlock at all times. John had agreed, grabbed it, and waited.

It wasn’t more than five minutes later that a black car – tinted windows, he noticed – pulled up to the curb. He’d wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s and guided them both downstairs where a man ushered them quickly into the back seat. He hadn’t said a word about where they were going or who he was, he had just simply seated himself behind the wheel and took off.

And here they were – forty minutes later, going by his watch – on the way to someplace to hide.

God, what John wouldn’t give to be one of the ones going after those bastards. Right now, the officers of Scotland Yard and some of Mycroft’s men alike would be closing in on any of the several possible buildings, ready to either capture or gun down the bombers. He sighed to himself; at least they could rest assured that that particular group wouldn’t be hurting anybody after today.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson?” the driver said, startling John out of his thoughts. “We’re here.”

John stepped out of the car, Sherlock getting out after him. The building in front of them looked to be a warehouse- not particularly large, but still a decent size. Shattered and dirty windows were on all sides, and various rubble was scattered around on the empty parking lot surrounding it. John had to admit, this wasn’t quite what he’d expected.

“We need to move quickly,” the man said, beginning to walk. “Follow me.”

John held onto Sherlock as they both walked inside.

* * *

 

The room they’d ended up locked in wasn’t too bad, John supposed. The inside of the building had basically matched the outside, dust and various little pieces of stone and plaster laying around. After some twisting halls, they’d finally made it to a small room, and the man escorting them had punched a card into the slot below the door handle before leading them inside.

He’d flipped the light switch, informed them that someone would be in contact once it was safe, and left the room, locking the door behind him.

The room itself appeared to be a repurposed office, old filing cabinets lining the walls. A couch sat by one wall, a cot pushed against the opposite one. A table sat in the middle, with a phone on top. John’s stomach twisted a bit when he looked inside one of the cabinets, finding it stocked with freeze-dried food and bottled water. How long, exactly, were they going to be in here?

“John?” Sherlock said, still standing uncertainly by the door.

“Oh, sorry,” he said. He led Sherlock over to the couch, sat him down. John sat beside him, leaning back.

“Well,” John said, trying to break the silence. He couldn’t find anything else to say afterwards, and Sherlock let out a long sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he said. John startled a bit, looked over at him.

“For?”

“Everything. Everything that’s happened in the past three months has been my fault, John,” Sherlock said, worrying his hands as he spoke. “I do apologize, and I hope it hasn’t caused you too much grief.”

John stared at him incredulously. How on _earth_ could Sherlock even come close to thinking like this? God, he’d seemed so much better, he was still beating himself up?

“Sherlock, you don’t need to apologize,” John said. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“Because, John, it’s true and you know it. _I_ was the one who insisted on doing cases again, _I_ was the one who tried to throw you out, _I_ was the one who took the bomber case to begin with. All of it was me, not you,” he said. He took a deep breath. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t even know why you’re still here. You could have left and would have been perfectly right in doing so.”

“Sherlock…” John said quietly. He reached towards Sherlock’s hand, hesitated, then settled on holding his arm instead.

“Everyone makes mistakes; trust me, I’ve had worse ones. The difference is you tried to fix it. You gave it everything you had, all the time, and you’ve done amazing,” he said. He squeezed reassuringly. “Anyone would have given up quite a while ago, but not you. You’ve been fantastic, and don’t you dare think otherwise, no matter how many little dingy rooms we get locked in.”

“John-“

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence as a loud bang echoed outside. John’s heart raced- surely Mycroft’s men could have found another way in besides blasting the door down?

He heard yelling, noticed unfamiliar voices. He peeked over at Sherlock, saw an echo of his own worry on his face. Maybe they were just agents they hadn’t seen before; Mycroft’s network was vast. Surely there were people they hadn’t met before.

Footsteps sounded just outside their door, and John froze.

“They’re here somewhere,” the muffled voice said. “Our sources are reliable. Get searching.” There was a beep, which seemed to be from a walkie-talkie. John went cold as he recognized the voice; it was one of them. They were here, and _oh, God, he needed to get him and Sherlock out of here._

“John…” Sherlock whispered. John held tighter onto his arm; he must have recognized the voice as well.

“Stay exactly where you are, alright? Don’t move,” John whispered back. Sherlock reached for him, and John grabbed his hand.

“I swear I’m only going to the door. I won’t leave you.” He let go with just a bit of reluctance, then walked slowly towards the door, drawing out his gun as he went. He pressed his ear to the door, closing his eyes as he listened close. The footsteps were still there, heavy, booted ones- but there was only one set. He sat for a couple more moments, trying to listen for any shifting or any other steps, but none were to be found. It seemed like the man was alone.

John took a deep breath, steadying himself as he slipped into a mindset that had gone unused for quite some time. John slowly turned the latch on the door, unlocking it. The steps drew closer, then passed by the door, and John opened it slowly, hoping it wouldn’t creak. He peeked around the corner of the doorway, seeing the man standing a couple feet away, looking down at something in his hands. John ran up behind him, hitting him squarely in the head with his pistol just as he turned to look. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

John bent down, quickly checking to be sure that he was out, then dragged him back into the room. He quickly walked to Sherlock, now standing anxiously in front of the couch, and grabbed his hand.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly. Sherlock nodded. He led them both out the door, and John tried to get his bearings.

“Damn it!” he whispered sharply. “I can’t remember how we got here!”

“Two rights, one left, a long straight, and left again,” Sherlock replied. “Although, that could be inaccurate.”

It was better than nothing. John thought on it, mapping it out in his head; he knew the long straight would be across the warehouse floor, and would be the most dangerous part. He considered leaving Sherlock behind as he looked ahead, but quickly threw it out. He took a breath, then took the first turn, leading them onwards.

John stopped, slowly opening the door. He peeked around, trying to spot anyone waiting, but no one was to be found. He saw two pillars; each looked wide enough for them to stand behind.

He started to walk again, leading them quickly behind the first pillar. He looked towards the second, and was about to run to it, when Sherlock suddenly froze beside him. John looked over, saw a look of controlled panic on his face.

“Alright?” he whispered.

“John,” he replied, almost silently. “I think I just touched wires.”

John looked over at Sherlock’s free hand, and sucked in a sharp breath; there were, in fact, wires. He followed them, the strands trailing along to the opposite wall, and finally he saw it.

There were two bombs wired up on the other side of the room.

Suddenly, John thought back to the man he’d knocked out in the hallway; he’d been fiddling with something in his hands, something that he’d seen again lying on the floor as they walked by the second time.

It was a timer.

He held onto Sherlock’s hand tightly, running towards the door on the other end; just as they passed the second pillar, John heard one long, high tone.

The room was suddenly filled with the explosion, both in sound and feeling. All the memories of the first time, the one that had started it all, came rushing back as John threw both of them to the ground. He heard the crackling of shattering concrete and wood all around him, the supports of the room being blasted apart. He covered his head, ears ringing, eyes shut tight.

After a few moments, his hearing finally began to return, and he was distantly surprised to be alive. His heart was thudding almost painfully in his chest, and he looked to his side, seeing Sherlock motionless through the thick smoke and dust in the air.

“Sherlock?” he said sharply, shaking him. To his immense relief, Sherlock sat up slightly, dust and a bit of blood on his face.

He pulled both of them to a shaky stand, trying to look around, blinking at the smoke.

“Damn it, I can’t see a thing!” he said, putting both hands on his head. He started to panic, but pushed it away as he looked quickly about, trying to see anything. He finally spotted what looked like the exit door, and started to run when he suddenly froze with realization.

He wasn’t holding onto Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” He said.

No response.

He began to shake, and he spun around wildly, trying to spot him, but the smoke was in his eyes and his skin stung and _oh God, how could he have let him go?_

“Sherlock!” he yelled, still receiving no response. He found it hard to breathe, the air choking him, his heart still pounding.

Suddenly someone was on his back, trying to get a hold of his neck- he spun around, shooting his assailant. The man crumpled to the floor- John wondered how many there might be left.

More importantly, if that one had found him…

“ _Sherlock!”_ he yelled again, desperately searching.

Suddenly there was a rumble in the air as the ceiling began to give out, and sunlight shone through the smoke- Sherlock was throwing a man down, another body already on the ground beside him.

John ran, unthinking; all that mattered was that he got to him, found him, made sure he was safe, _how the hell had he let him go?_

He grabbed Sherlock, pulled him away from the crumbling roof- John was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that the men chasing after them might not have been the biggest danger. The door was already blocked, and the other only led deeper into the building; no way out.

He ran for the reinforced beam stretching between the concrete pillars, and pulled Sherlock in tight as they stood beneath it.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” John said, squeezing Sherlock in closer to him. He practically buried himself in that familiar coat and scarf, long arms suddenly wrapping around him in return. John’s heart still beat hard, but it slowed a bit as he realized nothing more could be done. All they could do was wait.

John held tight onto Sherlock as the building collapsed around them.

* * *

 

John opened his eyes slowly, blinking through the settling dust.

For the second time that day, he was presently surprised to find that he was, impossibly, alive. He found himself still holding tightly to Sherlock, the both of them on the ground, leaning against the pillar.

The bit of wall and ceiling held up by the pillars appeared to be one of the few things still left standing.

“We made it,” John said quietly, both to himself and Sherlock. He was really in disbelief- somehow, they’d made it out just fine, save for some cuts and bruises. John’s hearing was still a bit fuzzy, but he was sure that it would clear up after a while.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, his voice a bit rough. John found himself laughing suddenly, coughing a couple times as the smoke and dust cleared from his lungs.

“Yeah. More than alright, really,” he said, smiling. “We’re fucking insane, you know that?”

Sherlock laughed once, and John found himself both hearing and feeling it, still pressed lightly to his chest. “I thought you would have figured that out some time ago.”

“I think I did,” John said. “Years ago, probably. Maybe that’s why I’m still here.”

Sherlock looked a bit confused. “Because I’m insane?”

“Because _we’re_ insane,” John corrected. “We’re both insane and hunt down criminals and get fucking _bombed_ , and God, I love every second of it.”

Sherlock laughed again, and John joined in. Then, something changed.

John had no idea what came over him. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the incredible bliss of just being _alive_ after something like that, maybe it was just simply the fact that here he stood, in the middle of the clearing dust after a bomb’s explosion, still clinging tightly to Sherlock. Whatever the reason may have been, John reached up, cupped Sherlock’s face, then brought him down into a kiss.

He heard a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock, and for just a moment he was worried that maybe this was too much; maybe he’d finally crossed that invisible line that had been between them for so long. But soon afterwards, he began to return the kiss, the two of them finally letting go.

It was like all of the pent up emotion – all of the anger, the sadness, the grief – all of it was melting away in the slow slide of lips, and they were finally moving on. Looking back, John thought it was almost ridiculous; they’d spent so much time trying every last thing to fix the situation they’d gotten into, and all it’d taken to finally do it was a bit of nerve.

They pulled apart, and John held tightly onto him still. He looked up at Sherlock, and saw that same face of raw emotion that had been there for weeks after the accident; this one, though, almost held a glow to it.

“Alright?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Very much alright.”

Sirens began to sound, slowly coming closer. John finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Yes, things were in fact very much alright.

* * *

 

**_Four Months Later_ **

Sherlock never could quite figure out how he’d gotten so impossibly lucky. His entire life, something always came along when he most needed it. His childhood, his drug addiction, every dark point in his life was always contrasted by an ever brighter one afterwards.

Never had he considered himself lucky enough to find John Watson, and he still didn’t quite feel deserving of him; not in any sense, and certainly not the way that he had him now. He’d become a fixed point in an ever-changing world; no matter what whirlwind of events took hold, John would always be there, a perfect port in a storm.

“Tea’s done,” he said, footsteps signaling his approach to the couch – ever so slightly lighter footfalls; carefully carrying two full mugs. He reached out, taking his mug as John sat beside him. John gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before taking a sip of his drink.

Sherlock took a sip of his, made a face.

“Oh, don’t even try that,” John said. “Three sugars, 125 milliliters of milk per one full blue mug of tea.”  
  
 _Amazing._

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said.

“We went over the tea a while ago,” John said. “Right after you got too lazy to make your own.”

“No,” Sherlock said, shifting to a serious tone for a moment. “I don’t understand _you._ How did I get you?”

John laughed, and Sherlock could almost see the particular little smile that went along with it in his mind.

“I end up wondering the same, sometimes,” John said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand how I got lucky enough to have you.”

Sherlock’s chest ached, and he wrapped an arm warmly around him. Perhaps neither of them would ever know, especially considering that each of them thought himself to be the lucky one. Obviously John was wrong, but he would never be able to convince him of that.

“Lestrade called,” John said. “Said he has a little one for us. Thought you might want it, but I didn’t guarantee anything. If you do, all we have to do is show up to the Yard in about…” he paused. “An hour.”

Sherlock nodded. “We haven’t had anything in a while.”

“Alright,” John said. “Let’s finish breakfast, then we’ll head over.”

Sherlock kept thinking about John the entire rest of the morning; while he was dressing, while he helped him shave, even as he pulled on his coat and gloves. Despite all that had happened, he still felt lucky. Immensely, impossibly lucky.

“Ready?” John said. Sherlock held out his hand and John took it, leading them downstairs. Sherlock continued thinking as they stepped into the cab. They settled in, John squeezing his hand affectionately as the car pulled away from the curb. Finally, Sherlock came to somewhat of a conclusion.

He may have lost his sight, but he gained an immeasurable amount in return; certainly not least of all, John. From what John had said that night after the second bombing, perhaps Sherlock had always had him.

He’d just been blind to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. After just a little over three months, what was originally supposed to be a short one-shot turned into the longest fic I've ever written.  
> I really hope you guys liked this last chapter and the story in general, thank you so so much for reading! I've loved your comments and got excited every time I got a new kudo or bookmark. You guys are the best!  
> Thanks for sticking around, see you again soon c:


End file.
